Shades Don't Help
by nebularSpool
Summary: Dave struggles to meet his own perfectionist state of mind. Sadstuck. Rated M for language, and mature content.


Hey, guys! This is my first fic, and I'd really like some constructive criticism on it. It's an AU, obviously, and I worked really hard on it! I really hope you like it. Here's the Tumblr version: shades-dont-help

Enjoy!

-Remix.

**Trigger warnings: **First chapter isn't too bad, but the next chapter there will be mentions of forceful sex, etc. I'll be sure to warn you guys before each chapter3

Please look at me, and farewell, because soon enough it'll be like all the others. They only want a perfect boy, and you can't be a perfect boy, you will never be a perfect, but you won't accept that, never, ever, will you accept anything but utter perfection. Don't slip, don't show emotions, you truly emulate the perfect boy, you almost _are_ the perfect person. At least that's what you let your 'friends', your schoolmates, anyone you can convince it. You let them think that. Your name is Dave Strider, and you want to be perfect.

It's another day; another fucking day and you sit in the dank of your classroom, a place that smelt mostly of grey, if that could be described as a smell, that's exactly how it smelt in here. The tendencies from when you were young, returning, quietly tapping your pencil, which fitted perfectly between the crook of each of your fingers. It looked perfect there, like it was a perfectly tuned piece. You wish each of your fingers were like a pencil, long, slender, perfectly toned to everyone's liking. But they weren't, and you needed to stop thinking about perfection for once. You swore one day those thoughts would hurt you more than they already did.

Once out of class, you were instantly barraged with people who called you their friends and you were okay with that, you supposed, friends are okay, friends are cool, if you have a lot of friends, people will think you're cool, perfect. Perfect people don't have friends. Ugly people don't have any friends, and they're certainly not perfect. They have dimples, zits, things that adorn their face and make them imperfect.

They all decided on talking at you at once, telling you your hair looked nice and asking you if you'd cleaned your glasses lately, because they looked really clean and shiny today. Of course they did, you'd think to yourself, 'you little attention-seeking shits.' And you'd move on, like any other day, with a plastered-on bored-looking face. You'd completely forget about being perfect for a while, which was a relief, instead focusing on the lessons that were being taught and the people around you.

At this point in the day, you had begun to notice a new person wandering about the halls, he looked scared and confused. He looked vulnerable and it brought a small smirk onto your face. Maybe you could have a little fun; he seemed like the type to keep his mouth shut about things you would say. Things you would do. And you could do things to that goddamn boy, you didn't even care much about it anymore. If he did talk, you could always just say that he was doing it for the attention. Because everybody loved you, and you could sleep easy with the fact that you could put someone through some sociopath-ridden terror that made up your current being. This would be fun, you decided, and thought up a quick plan of action before you nodded off, taking a quick glance at your arm. Something seemed off about it, though you couldn't quite place it.

You woke up, it was a Saturday, all was well in the Strider household. Bro was out, and that was a really excellent thing because you liked having the house all to yourself. It was more peaceful, that way, you could do whatever you wanted and Bro couldn't barge in and ruin everything. He would especially do that when you were trying to use cover-up to hide a flaw. You were already pale-as-snow, you didn't need any zits breaking out in the middle of your face and making your face imperfect. That was awful, and it made the skin irritated, but fuck it, it looked better than a giant red spot that everyone was going to stare at. Well, people probably wouldn't even notice, or much less say anything, but hell you would notice, and you would definitely find some way to inwardly nag yourself about it. He would laugh at you, tell you it's dumb and say you looked fine, but you knew it was all a lie. He was just a huge piece of work, wasn't he?

You're lonely, most of the time. Sure, you're the fucking belle of the ball but that doesn't mean that you particularly enjoy being around people. Mostly, they annoy the hell out of you. Especially the pricks you hang out with. The suck-ups are the worse, to you. Metaphorically, mostly, but being popular and (apparently) good-looking, came with the cost of girls (and boys) being interested in your crotch regions. You didn't want that, at all, and tried to keep away mostly.

Not because you wouldn't the like prospect of that, with a couple choice people, but because you're scared.

Some may call it some messed up version of Stockholm syndrome, or something of the sorts, you'd never wanted to think too much in depth about the whole thing.

You and your brother have never had an ideal relationship, or maybe it's all too ideal, for your liking. Sure, he's a great brother, and everything, but sometimes he gets too close for comfort. Sometimes Bro likes you a little too much. You've called him out for it, of course, but he never stops. He never stops and you hate him for it, but you let it go on because if you fight him he won't love you anymore, would he? He wouldn't love you in the same way if you rejected him. He loves you and you can't just go about rejecting him like that.

So you let it go on.


End file.
